"Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again."
- Khalil Gibran
The afternoons were usually bright and sunny in this part of the city. But it was different on that fateful day decades ago when I last saw the sky. As if the sharp sun rays had signed a pact not to pierce the dark clouds, the afternoon was gloomy. I entered the office enthusiastically and joined the queue of my fellow citizens. Each had his own reason to stand in the queue - land registration, rehabilitation, pension, documentation, certification. The rich and the poor, irrespective of their social standing in this modern day of civilized existence, I thought, had come to claim what was depicted their right from the finest institutionalized structure - the state.
I stood wondering whether to rejoice being part of the greatest revolution in the evolution of political structures - the democratic revolution or simply accept that this too is a farce and our dreams of an egalitarian existence was still a dream far away. I hoped the corridors of power would reinvent themselves into cradles of responsibility. At least, that was the common dream the proponents of democracy had wished for when they placed their faith in the 'will of the people'. But on display was the most traditional abuse of power - 'to make one wait unreasonably' for what rightfully belongs to him!
The queue stood almost static, as if a long snake lying nearly dead, only the tail restless. We at the end of the queue were told the clerk had been for lunch. And it seemed as if he took ages to have his lunch. After each hour, I asked the fellow who stood before me if the clerk had returned. He asked the one before him and the question travelled a long distance to and fro, before we got our answer in the negative.
The quintessential clerk - he was the citizen's first point of contact with the state. To us, at the rock bottom of the social pyramid, he was the door out of misery, which never opened! Yet deep in our heart, the window of hope never closed, because we were told we lived in a democracy, which was supposedly destined to empower.
As life came to a stand still in the queue and my eyes wandered around, I felt all that everyone and everything did there was to wait. Though the minute hand of the clock, as usual took sixty seconds to move, it felt as if the wait of sixty seconds was a wait till eternity. The desks too waited, maybe for years now, to be dusted. The files on the desk would have died long ago, but they were alive as once in a while they would be moved from one table to another. Many cabinets and cupboards waited, waited to be opened so that they could get a fresh lease of air. Maybe every thing in the office waited to get rusted and be replaced. Not much had changed, though the world outside had changed beyond recognition, it was still the same Kafkaesque world inside.
My wait extended from days to weeks and as we waited, weeks turned to months. Though the hierarchy of unresponsive power could make us all wait, time never heeded to any power however mighty. Accustomed to make their own brethren wait, had the insiders too waited instead of reforming the system with changing times? Had time simply overtaken them all and they still stayed frozen in the past, asking us to wait till the past overtakes the present!?
Now, the act of waiting no more seemed to be a pain, for our existence itself was a pain and a life accustomed to pain could find neither justice nor solace complaining of pain. Months had rolled into years and years into decades. The queue, I had failed to notice, changed with time. Many left the queue, few joined it. I too was told that the queue need not be the only way. There were alternate ways, each had its price. But I argued we had paid all price to bring in the revolution of democracy and the only justice was in adhering to the will of the people. In reply the watchman who monitored order in the queue told me - "Only two kinds of people adhere to the rules and join the queue - one, those stubborn foolish idealists like you, who believe in the rules and two, those who cannot afford anything else, but the queue."
After decades of wait, I finally got to the clerk. He looked at my request and said I had applied in the wrong form. But I retorted that it was the right form, the only form of request available back at the end of the queue. The clerk, his characteristic unyielding self, informed that the forms were changed by the government when I waited in the queue and the form I submitted was no longer valid. I felt betrayed - betrayed by my own brethren, stabbed straight in my chest. The thought of getting the right form and waiting in the queue all over again terrified me. But these long years of wait had reduced me to a position where I could not afford anything else, but the queue alone.
Frustrated at my plight, as I walked back, I wondered aloud "What is my fault? Why am I tortured to get what rightfully belongs to me? What is wrong here?"
The watchman heard me and said - "I can answer your last question and all other questions have their answers in it."
"Go on," I begged, " What is wrong in here?"
With an ironic smile, he replied back with conviction - "the will of the people!"
The queue stood almost static, as if a long snake lying nearly dead, only the tail restless. We at the end of the queue were told the clerk had been for lunch. And it seemed as if he took ages to have his lunch. After each hour, I asked the fellow who stood before me if the clerk had returned. He asked the one before him and the question travelled a long distance to and fro, before we got our answer in the negative.
The quintessential clerk - he was the citizen's first point of contact with the state. To us, at the rock bottom of the social pyramid, he was the door out of misery, which never opened! Yet deep in our heart, the window of hope never closed, because we were told we lived in a democracy, which was supposedly destined to empower.
As life came to a stand still in the queue and my eyes wandered around, I felt all that everyone and everything did there was to wait. Though the minute hand of the clock, as usual took sixty seconds to move, it felt as if the wait of sixty seconds was a wait till eternity. The desks too waited, maybe for years now, to be dusted. The files on the desk would have died long ago, but they were alive as once in a while they would be moved from one table to another. Many cabinets and cupboards waited, waited to be opened so that they could get a fresh lease of air. Maybe every thing in the office waited to get rusted and be replaced. Not much had changed, though the world outside had changed beyond recognition, it was still the same Kafkaesque world inside.
My wait extended from days to weeks and as we waited, weeks turned to months. Though the hierarchy of unresponsive power could make us all wait, time never heeded to any power however mighty. Accustomed to make their own brethren wait, had the insiders too waited instead of reforming the system with changing times? Had time simply overtaken them all and they still stayed frozen in the past, asking us to wait till the past overtakes the present!?
Now, the act of waiting no more seemed to be a pain, for our existence itself was a pain and a life accustomed to pain could find neither justice nor solace complaining of pain. Months had rolled into years and years into decades. The queue, I had failed to notice, changed with time. Many left the queue, few joined it. I too was told that the queue need not be the only way. There were alternate ways, each had its price. But I argued we had paid all price to bring in the revolution of democracy and the only justice was in adhering to the will of the people. In reply the watchman who monitored order in the queue told me - "Only two kinds of people adhere to the rules and join the queue - one, those stubborn foolish idealists like you, who believe in the rules and two, those who cannot afford anything else, but the queue."
After decades of wait, I finally got to the clerk. He looked at my request and said I had applied in the wrong form. But I retorted that it was the right form, the only form of request available back at the end of the queue. The clerk, his characteristic unyielding self, informed that the forms were changed by the government when I waited in the queue and the form I submitted was no longer valid. I felt betrayed - betrayed by my own brethren, stabbed straight in my chest. The thought of getting the right form and waiting in the queue all over again terrified me. But these long years of wait had reduced me to a position where I could not afford anything else, but the queue alone.
Frustrated at my plight, as I walked back, I wondered aloud "What is my fault? Why am I tortured to get what rightfully belongs to me? What is wrong here?"
The watchman heard me and said - "I can answer your last question and all other questions have their answers in it."
"Go on," I begged, " What is wrong in here?"
With an ironic smile, he replied back with conviction - "the will of the people!"
